


Wherever Is Your Heart I Call Home

by jollux



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Hurt/Comfort, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Minor Violence, idk what else to tell ya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 13:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollux/pseuds/jollux
Summary: this is sappy and dumb





	Wherever Is Your Heart I Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> my actual personal life is a disaster right now so I'm putting all the emotions I have from that shit into this, enjoy my way of dealing with my own relationship shit
> 
> I wrote like 75% of this a while ago after getting home late one night kinda drunk so idk
> 
> the title is from Wherever Is Your Heart by Brandi Carlile

The eye of the hurricane seemed to have passed, Japheth Dury was long dead and Captain Connor met a very timely ending as well, but that by no means meant they didn’t still have enemies.  The dark seething underbelly of New York seemed to have their eyes set on them and it always seemed like someone lurking in the shadows was out for the kill. Laszlo was a powerful man with many more powerful enemies.

Half the way home Laszlo felt as though he was being followed.  It was a feeling he couldn’t seem to shake, there wasn’t someone he could pinpoint as the root of the sinking feeling deep within him.  He took a more convoluted way home this time, circling up and down the streets trying to lose his worry on the way. _No one’s there_ , he thought every time he looked over his shoulder to check and check again.

As the night dragged on he began to regret the choice to walk more and more.

He got too comfortable, which is what brought his downfall.  He still didn’t feel right but gave up paranoidly looking over his shoulder and walking halfway around the city to try to lose his pursuer.  Evidence showed that it was all in his head, he accepted that and adjusted his actions accordingly.

Some cretin decided to drag his way out of the woodwork, emerging from the dark like a bullet from a gun.  A grimy hand closed around his mouth, gripping tightly around his jaw, and the cool barrel of a revolver finds its way to pressing into his back through the thick wool of his coat.  “Good evening, Dr. Kreizler,” a thick New Yorker accent lets out, hot breath meeting his exposed neck. Rough waves of fear wash over his body, holding him where he stood.

A strong hand on his collar pulls him back into the darkness of the alley, choking him just a little.  There wasn’t anything particularly intimidating about the man, gun aside. He wasn’t much taller than Laszlo, or stronger, for that matter.  When it all came down to it, Laszlo probably even had a good chance in a fight, as long as he could use surprise to his benefit and grab the gun, _maybe_.  But it wasn’t the physical presence of the goon that shook him but the memories he brought up.  The raw unbridled fear of events that transpired those few weeks ago seeped back into his skin and broke him into a cold sweat.

The thug held him square in place with his forearm pinning his shoulders to the brick wall, with help of the threat of the gun pressing into his abdomen.  The man front of him was someone’s crony who was mad about something that happened with some brothel his boss owned, Laszlo wasn’t listening. He was much more preoccupied with trying to keep his breathing steady and the trembling in his bones at bay  “So the good doctor’s speechless now, huh?” The barrel of the gun traces Laszlo’s jawline and settles itself into the crook where his jawbone meets his neck.

He didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, squaring his jaw and looking the man in the eye.  Trying hard to control his breathing, it wasn’t necessarily that he lacked a witty retort, but that there was no guarantee that he could keep his voice from shaking and concede to the crony how much power he truly held in that moment.

“You’ve made a lot powerful enemies, doc,” he gritted out through crooked teeth.  The barrel of the gun slots itself under his chin, pushing his head back until it presses into the cool brick wall behind him.  The uneven ridges ridges of the bricks sear pain into his skull making him grit his teeth.

That was the last straw, he didn’t seem like he was leaving anytime soon and no matter what, it was about to get much worse before it got better.  He wouldn’t leave him unharmed or he’d be a pretty terrible thug, he’d leave his mark somehow. Maybe he has a knife somewhere hidden on him or he’d get a little more creative.  Or he’d just shoot him, that’s also a possibility. It makes everything Laszlo’s accomplished feel so small, he’d helped bring down a child murderer but some unknown peon just blows his brains out in an alleyway?

Laszlo was never really sure of how he’d die, but surely he would go out with a fight.  Taking a final deep breath, he looks to the sky, the beginning of a December snowfall is flurrying through the deep night sky.  It’s beautiful, honestly, if this is the last thing he ever sees, it isn’t too bad. Laszlo reaches for the gun, slamming the thug’s fist into the wall in hopes that it will force him to release his grip.

It fails almost spectacularly.  “Fuck,” the man grimaces, after the crack of his fist on the bricks breaks through the air.

Laszlo feels the grip of the revolver make contact with his temple.  Then he feels the cold, wet cobblestone ground.

“That was a bad call, Doctor.”  A swift kick to the abdomen knocks the wind out of him, and another to keep it away.  He leans down and presses a knee to Laszlo’s ribcage, his lungs burning for air. “Now you listen to me,” a hand closes around his throat, tightening quickly.  “You stay off our streets, and you stay out of our way, or that fucking friend of yours will find you choked with your own intestines.” He releases, Laszlo’s hand flies up to his newly reopened airway as he gasps.  There’ll be bruises by there tomorrow, he imagines, not to mention the ache searing through his stomach. He must look like a mess, lying down in the December slush, soaked to the core and shivering, with blood caking on his face and the early stages of a black eye.  Not necessarily his best moment, but he was alive and he was now alone.

It takes him a minute to catch his breath, but he couldn’t seem to regulate it, or stop shaking, or stop his heart from racing.  He couldn’t stop feeling like he was going to die, but he couldn’t stay here. His trembling legs force him upwards with the help of an arm searching for something to grip onto.  

* * *

 

Laszlo has never particularly great at directions, but definitely a cab could know how to bring him home.  “Fucking hell,” he sighs, noticing the loss of his wallet.

His house was too far to walk, nevermind his current state.   Reading the street signs at the nearest intersection, there’s only one place near here he knew he’d be allowed in, where he knew he’d be safe: John’s house.

The snow was coming down harder now, obscuring his vision almost.  He nearly misses the building on the first try, snowflakes illuminated by the grey haze of the city hid away the street address.  He knew where it was, a side effect of being there countless times, but he wasn’t paying particularly a lot of attention tonight.

The thick oak door loomed over Laszlo like a shadow as he knocks, then bringing his hand back to hold his aching ribs.  It swings open to reveal John’s face, washed with shock. “What are—” he scans over his shaking figure. “Good God, Laszlo, what happened?”  He didn’t wait for a response, grabbing Laszlo’s shoulder and pulling him into the foyer, he stumbles over the step. “You’re soaked to the bone!” 

“I had a run in with a friend of a friend, probably from Paresis Hall, or something along those lines,” his voice was forced and barely over a whisper.  Not even looking John in the eye, his vision tunnels into the carpet running up the carpet. 

“And you’re bleeding?”  John grips his chin, gently turning his head to the side to observe the gash left from the grip of the revolver.  Laszlo had nowhere near the energy to protest the simple gesture, though it was not unwelcomed. The touch of someone familiar helped settle the nerves.  “I’m going to kill him,” John grinds out, his knuckles turn white where he grabs the door before slamming it shit.

“You most certainly will not,” his voice quivers just the slightest bit, just enough for John to notice.

“Then what?  What am I supposed to do, Kreizler?  Let some son of bitch throw you around like a ten cent whore?”  His voice grows louder, his concern and protectiveness for his best friend fuelling the anger.

“Quiet down now, there’s no need to wake you grandmother, and I have no need to be seen this—” _weak_ “—in this state.”

“She’s visiting with my aunt in Rochester.”  He said mindlessly, reaching for glasses from a hutch just out of the foyer.  Filling them near to the brim with the best vodka within an arm’s reach. “Here, to keep you warm until I get the fire up.”

Laszlo was not a stranger to drink but did normally partake in different vices than John, though he had always found wine more agreeable.  It tasted like burning, he forces away the grimace his face starts to contort to. It wasn’t a drink you could take slowly so he downed it in one go, John doing the same.  It didn’t take long for his head to start to feel fuzzy, like his thoughts were swimming in honey. He did start to feel a little less cold too, though not very dexterous.

John took to rekindling the fire in the living room, which seemed to have burned out an hour or two ago.  Despite his best efforts, Laszlo couldn’t help be fascinated with the was he worked with the flames. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow to keep the immaculate white away from the charred logs.  His eyes fixated on the strain of the pronounced veins sitting just under skin, occasionally wondering what it would feel like to run his hands over John’s toned arms before becoming overcoming with shame and embarrassment for these thoughts, diverting his eyes and mind temporarily.  This cycle repeated another time or two before the fire was built enough for John to give his attention to something else.

Within the last few months they had definitely seen each other more than they had in the last few years, at least.  It had reminded them both of what great friends they had been all those years ago, and though it hadn’t necessarily faded, it had definitely become less pronounced.  Much to Laszlo’s dismay, however, this had also brought back old affectionate feelings he’d thought he was rid of. Leaving him to believe that the feelings weren’t necessarily gone, but simply hibernating.

It reminded him of the nights in the later years of college when they shared an apartment and Laszlo would see him early in the morning, before the day’s lectures and before John’s shirt had been done up all the way.  His eyes would gaze over all the features of his body over his morning coffee, forcing away the persistent thoughts of how it would feel like to run his hands on his chest, his mouth on his pronounced collar bone, trying unsuccessfully to replace them with that day’s workload.  Seeing him before the world did felt intimate and raw, it was something that is not experienced with casual friends or acquaintances.

John soon returned with a shirt to replace the drenched one Laszlo currently wore.  He reaches for the top button of his shirt, struggling with his frozen fingers.

“Would you like me to…” John’s eyes dart to his hand to round out the question.

“If you wouldn’t mind,”  Laszlo agrees, deciding this was not the moment to tirelessly protect his modesty.  He tries to force away the rising heat in his cheeks as John stepped forward to close the distance between them, near holding his breath when his hands make quick work of his shirt’s fastenings.

Though he had before imagined what it would be like to see John undoing his shirt, these are admittedly less ideal circumstances.  Before he’d thought that it would be sometime after Laszlo had finally worked up the courage (or perhaps stupidity) to kiss him and it would persist from there.  Or perhaps it would be close to one specific recent fantasy where he would kiss him in a rush of adrenaline after making a major progression in the now closed case, rushed and urgent while they were alone in the dusty comfort of his home’s study.  Surrounded by the smell of old books and chalk dust they would strip to their waists or beyond and become more familiar with each other’s bodies. These thoughts felt like the childish dreams of a hormonal adolescent, but he had admit that his mind couldn’t help but to roam there sometimes when he lied alone in his bed at night, comforted by the secrecy of the dark and silence.

When John began to do up a dry shirt, Laszlo could have sworn he was closer than before.  “You seem much more agreeable frozen half to death,” he muses, smoothing down the buttons, sending a shiver down Laszlo’s spine, despite his best efforts.  “Are you certain you don’t need to go to the hospital?” John brushes his hair away from the laceration at his temple, fingers gracing his forehead cause his breath to halt in his chest.

“Let us not forget who here is the doctor.”  John grins slightly and shakes his head at his friend’s stubbornness.  After a pause, he returns to the fire to prod it once more, giving Laszlo a much needed moment to get his head together.  Sitting near the fireplace on a floral couch, to take deep breaths and shake his mind of the inappropriate thoughts that plagued him. 

John joins him on the sofa, their legs a mere inch or two from each other. It feels closer than necessary, but Laszlo can’t tell if it’s just in his head, that he only feels so close because he wants him to be.

“I have to admit that I feel ashamed for what has happened to you,” John sighs, his eyes darting around the ornate carpet on the floor.

“Oh don’t you start, I’m perfectly capable of handling my own,” he responds in slight annoyance.

“It’s not that I see you as unable of doing everything on your own, it’s more that you don’t have to.”

“How do you mean?”

“What I’m trying to say is that I would like to be there with you,” he pauses, his hand moving to the right to rest upon Laszlo's knee and he can no longer feel the searing ache from the cut on his temple.  “That is, if you’d have me.”

The world slowed to a crawl, he refused to move or barely breathe in fear of disrupting the delicate touch moving up his thigh.  “You know that I would always have you,” he whispers, barely audible. Their conversation sits under the surface, chorusing in their subtexts and undertones.

John turns his head away, eyes scanning the flames in the fireplace and a slight smile quirks on his lips.  He lets out a sigh resembling something like a “yeah”.

“Always,” Laszlo lets out, more definitive this time, more sure of himself.

John returns his gaze and rests a gentle hand on the side of his face.  They were so close, Laszlo could barely let himself breathe, too scared that he could break the fragile moment.  John was leaning in closer for what felt like an eternity, until they were kissing and time stopped entirely. Everything around him felt to melt away, the throbbing pain, the crackling logs on the fire, and all the events of earlier in the night ceased to matter.

It felt as though his years of pining had finally paid off that, well less than pining.  It was something more along the lines of repressing feelings than agonizing over them later on.

They pull back.  “I have to apologise,” John breaks the silence.  “If that was at all out of line, if you do not want me in that way.”

“Not at all, quite the opposite I have to admit.”  Laszlo could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Everything had fallen into line, it all seemed just too perfect.  Come to think of it, it is possible this could be some cruel oxygen deprived hallucination. The mind is such a funny thing, he knows more than most.  He could be lying in that dark back alley bleeding to death and to spare himself the misery of his own death. In his final moment, his brain created somewhere for him to escape from the misery of his death.

He’s unsure of how to test for that, really, if anyone knew how to trick him it would likely be his own mind.  Beautifully ironic as it was, there was little to be done, at this point if he was dying there would be nothing he could do about it.  Although, maybe being able to question if it was a hallucination made it certain that it was not?

“I’m glad,” John smiled, breaking Laszlo from his train of thought.  John cups his face gently, running a finger across his cheekbone in the tentative silence.  He’s expecting it more this time and is no longer caught off guard when their lips meet, running his hand up the collar of John’s jacket he pulls him closer, wanting nothing more than their bodies to be as close together as possible.

At this point, would it even matter whether or not this was reality or some oxygen deprived fever dream?  Whichever realm of reality this is happening in, where they are so close he can feel John’s heart beat in his chest, is where he wants to be.


End file.
